


The Vision's Dying

by WhumpTown



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Calanthe and Eist are good parents, Calanthe is alive too, Eist being a good dad, Eist gets shot but not killed, F/M, Fix-It, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22251352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown
Summary: The world Cirilla has known burns down around her but she's not aloneAKA, A FIX-IT FIC WHERE CALANTHE AND EIST DON'T DIE
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 25
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just here to give the people what they want: Eist Teirsuch living and breathing

“Eist!”

His brain feels like it’s on fire. Pressure so immense on the left side of his face. He falls, his knees giving out underneath him. A rattle as his armor hits the ground. The metal digs into his body, knocking the breath from his lungs. Leaving him gasping, confused.

Calanthe, for a moment, steps into his field of vision. She’s gone just as quick. He reaches out, sluggish and uncoordinated. Metal smacks together and he can feel her kneeling at his side. See her hair blown by the wind. Tears. They’re pouring down her eyes, her mouth forming words but… He can’t hear them. “Calanthe,” her name gets caught in his chest, behind a sharp throb of pain. 

Metal. Everything becomes suddenly too loud, metal against metal as war rages around them. Screams of agony and victory. His head feels like its splitting in half. “Eist!” He’s pushed, held down and the agony sears into his body. “Eist stop,” his gauntlet is ripped off his hand and flesh takes hold of his hand. Calanthe. He knows the bends of her hand, the groove in her thumb that makes the bone dig into his hand. Her crooked pinkie finger. “Easy. Easy.”

Her hand ghosts over his face and his throat straining as searing hot pain consumes his body.

“Your majesty, we need to treat his wounds.”

Calanthe keeps fighting, Eist pained screams caught in her helmet. She takes a hit to the chest and lands on her back and she sees him. Arrow protruding from his face and his hands trembling to reach for it. She struggles back to her feet, fighting each man that comes her way as if he were the one who hurt Eist. A scream rips through her throat and she keeps fighting. 

Until she can’t anymore.

Cirilla knows more about love than she realizes. Love is subjective in her youthful mindset. No boy has made her stomach tie itself into knots like cherry stims in the mouths of whores. Love is more than just teenage boys and teenage feelings. She sees it every day. 

It’s in the tilt of Mousesack’s head, his tone as he reminders her for the umpteenth time,” _many, many years ago sorcerers were known to lock little girls in towers_.” His go-to whenever possible,” _the girls were said to be cursed. They were said to announce the end of the human race. So they were systematically killed!_ ” His deliveries are commendable but always lacking given that no matter how much he said he ‘understood why’, he would lay his life down for her. Give her the shirt off his back and the life from his lungs.

It’s in the clear night sky and three knocks on her door as Eist passes it. Her chilled toes on the ground as she jogs to catch up with his long strides. His warm hand guiding her to the roof, pointing out stars and rattling off names so naturally, she suspected he has made them up on the spot. Staying out until the stars start to disappear, leaving a streak of the encroaching sun’s beams. Pretending to fall asleep against his shoulder to fight the cold and in the hopes that he’ll carry her to her bed. Feigning slumber as he presses a kiss to her forehead and smiling when her grandmother shakes her head when she gets up late for her studies.

It’s in her grandmother’s strong arms capturing her in a crushing hug. Calanthe’s booming voice over everyone else’s as she declares Cirilla can be taught to spar with the boys if that’s what she desires. “ _If you two don’t stop talking I’ll have you both over my knee_ ,” always teasing and electing the reaction she wanted. Eist retaliating with something along the lines of “ _if that’s what you desire my sweet, that’s all you had to say_ ”, all in favor of making Cirilla want to puke. Her grandmother’s proud smile as Eist picks himself from the ground, looking between them as Cirilla shouts in delight at having bested Eist with her wooden sword. 

It’s in every crack and cranny of their ancient castle but as is loss and grief. 

Calanthe pulls Eist’s body to her lap, stroking his hair from his face. He trembles against her, lost to his pain-filled unconsciousness. His skin is deathly pale, his hands unnaturally still. She wishes to rouse him from his slumber, to kiss his pain away. To hold him until she can feel the warmth between them growing too strong but be too stubborn to break apart from his embrace. Yearning for their bodies to tangle in the sheets, his hand on her hip, his long legs tangled with hers.

“He’s too weak to move,” Mousesack whispers, his eyes cast away as if his loyalty all these years still did not grant him the right to witness such agonizing love. It is shame mixed with deep sadness that makes him avert his eyes. They are his family and he has failed them both. He prays to his God that he is killed before they are so that he doesn’t have to hear Calanthe’s heartbroken sobs as Eist is taken from her. Yet, to hear her would be a just penance.

She pulls the soaked rag from cooled water and drags it slowly across her husband’s forehead. More than anything she wishes to see his eyes. Dark pools of ember, boisterous laughter in the dead of the night, the wrinkle of crow’s feet when he smiles. The bandage around his head is thick, soaked in the sweat of his raging fever. It obscures his face, leaving nothing but a few days stubble and his lips uncovered. “I won’t leave him,” tears pool into her eyes as Eist draws in a rough breath, wheezing. She blinks them away, pulling the blanket over Eist shoulders. “You know what they’ll do to him if we leave him.” She looks up at Mousesack, jaw set and mind made up. “I’ll stay behind, do what needs to be done.”

Suicide. 

Cirilla knows what she means. Her heart pounds in her chest, the thought of her strong grandmother’s lips wrapped around a bottle is permanently engraved in her mind. Neither of them deserves that end, no matter their misdeeds. These people are her family, her only family. A grandmother with royal duties who could have shipped her off and a grandfather with no children of his own, so he chose to treat her mother as such. Only for Pavetta to be ripped from their hearts and leave them to raise her hellion child.

She needs to be together, forever. If she ever wishes to believe in love. To feel it’s essence burn in her body so strong she thinks she will melt away she needs them together. Her grandmother’s mood-lifting just by passing Eist in the hall. Knights and high courts men around them but Eist still leans over to kiss her cheek or whisper in her ear. Her smile unbreakable as she tells Cirilla,” _he’s so much dumber than he looks_.” She’s never heard ‘I love you, too’ sound so unique, so fierce.

“No,” not a child, a princess. The lioness of Cintra’s blood is in her veins the future burdens of two kingdoms on her shoulders. Her knees tremble beneath her, her wrist useless, but her voice holds conviction. “I won’t leave either of you,” the tears unreservedly streaming down her grandmother’s cheeks only reaffirming her will. “We can draw for a carriage, the knight is still in my room he can get us out of here.” She wills them to hear the reason, to understand.

Mousesack suddenly turns to the window, his eyes catching something none of them see. He breathes an uneasy sigh, turning Cirilla’s idea over. He nods,” we can do it, my queen.” 

The decision is hers but she doesn’t want to tell them that if Eist dies she wishes to lie by his side and go with him. She wishes to only breathe air as long as his lungs do because to live a day without his deep laughter or sweet kisses… it is not to live at all. She also understands how much her grandchild needs this, them. “Draw for the carriage.” Calanthe brushes a thumb along Eist’s face. Her back is to them now, allowing Cirilla and Mousesack to make this work. “Be strong for me, my love.” She presses a kiss to his lax lips.

“Gentle,” she whispers as the knight and Mousesack transfer Eist to the make-shift stretcher. She takes his hand in hers when it slides off, rubbing her thumb along the scarred knuckles. “I’ll be right behind you,” she promises his unconscious form as she watches them take him away. She and Cirilla grab only the things they can carry, focusing on medical supplies and blankets. Calanthe holds against her breast a wedding gift. It was from Eist the morning after their wedding. He kissed her awake and pressed the wooden toy into the palm of her hand. A boat. Tiny and crudely fiddled with a knife but he’d done it himself and she kept it at their bedside. Even after all this time and she couldn’t bring herself to part ways with it.

“He’s shivering,” Calanthe mutters as she climbs into the back of the wagon. Immediately, she begins tucking his coat around him, working the space out so she can toss the quilt they brought on him. 

Mousesack takes the front of the wagon with the knight,” let him catch some air. It’ll be good for the fever, it’s climbing again.”

Calanthe presses a hand to Eist’s forehead, frowning when she finds Mousesack’s words to ring true. “He’ll be fine,” if she’s talking to herself, the huddled child in the corner, or Mousesack it doesn’t matter. They all take hold of the words as a promise. Cirilla reaches out and takes Eist hand, afraid he might slip away if someone doesn’t hold him down. To this moment. To the carriage.

They slip into the night, leaving a burning kingdom behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

They settle into the depths of the woods. Darkness eats up the sky above them, the fire Mousesack hovers over a dangerous need. Cirilla is by his side, soaking in each of his measured movements. She wants to see and do, always has, but in this moment of panic makes Mousesack grow in anxiety and unease. There is no time for a teaching lesson as Eist lays on death’s bed a stone’s throw away. He also knows, Cirilla is calming herself. Allowing her brain to ignore her grandfather and the pressing matter at hand. He hasn’t the heart to ask her to be swept away in those awful thoughts. 

He delivers Calanthe a mug of stealing liquid. With the help of the knight, Eist lies in Calanthe’s lap. His head cradled in Calanthe’s lap while she sits swathed in a blanket, keeping it closely pulled to the both of them. "Place the cup to his lips, " Mousesack urges. Time is passing through their fingers. Eist’s fever should have eased away by now. He should be awake, not as still as death. “He'll swallow it as long as you can get some in his mouth." 

Calanthe pushes the cup to Eist lips, struggling to force the liquid past his lips. He struggles, blinded and feverish everything is a threat. Cirilla sinks to her knees in a swift movement, pinning her grandfather’s arm to her chest and halting half of his thrashing. Mousesack retrains the other. His panic builds but he swallows. Coughing, he sputters and his chest heaves.

“What's the matter, " Calanthe asks, Eist attempts to break free doubling. Cirilla is thrown to the side, the strength of madness and fear too much for her body to restrain. None of them will tell him that the already forming bruise was caused by his frantic state. "What's happening!"

Mousesack utters a single word spell and Eist sags, boneless. He curses under his breath standing and kicking out at the ground. He’s haggard and frustrated, it’s no wonder his spells and ideas aren’t working. He’s exhausted too much to function. “If I had…” he runs his hands through his grey hair. He looks to the sky, his breath going up in a single, solid whisp. “I’ll make this work.”

Calanthe does her best to keep her tears at bay, not wanting to scare Cirilla with her own fear. Yet, the limp man in her arms seems nothing like her Eist. He’s always moving and to have him lay so still, so limp in her arms is terrifying. In his sleep, he rocks himself, something she found so startling aggravating in the beginning of their marriage. Now, she can’t sleep if his body is not laying beside hers steadily rocking as the night goes on. 

She hums softly, a sailor's tune she’d heard him sing so often the words and melody remind her of him. She finds it soothing, the soft notes and hopes that it does something to soothe the sickness in him now. 

\---------------------

She’s become nimble with changing the bandage around his left eye. Quick to shield the inflamed red skin from Cirilla. They have always done their best to keep Cirilla involved in the duties one takes with the throne but there are simply certain things that no child needs to see. Wounds have always been secretly dealt with around Cirilla. The worst always being Eist. He spends too much time sparring with his nephews and Cirilla, it turned him into a tactile fighter. His blows landing to maim and not kill. 

“C-Calanthe?” His large hand suddenly grabs her wrist, halting her movement. Her heart pounds erratically until she can pry iron tight grip off. Pulling his fingers from around her wrist to hold his hand. Giving it a reassuring squeeze. “What’s-” his voice is a harsh rasp. Trembling like his hands, his voice wavers,” Calanthe, I can’t- I can’t see.”

She soothes him, rubbing her hands over every inch of skin she can. Keeping a simple rocking and shushing until his heart stops pounding in his chest. “You’re okay, my love.” Her voice trembles, no conviction, absent of truth. Nothing will ever be okay, never again. 

“You’ll leave me,” his conviction is strong but his voice a soft whisper. His body trembles weakened significantly from blood loss and cold. They can fight about the correct thing to do is but the answer is clear. If another arrow descends from the sky, and not a single one of them is killed, they will have to run. Doing so with a grown man, one that towers as tall and taller than them, will be impossible. A blinded man… “Calanthe,” his voice trembles while his hand grips her tight. “Please.”

The avoidance of the right words is powerful. He is pleading with the same feelings that she is dreading. If an arrow descends, Calanthe wishes for it to kill her. To kill her before she ever knows the agony of losing Eist. Tears, they prick her eyes like little fires. Her heart is full of pain, the agony of what might happen. She won’t deprive him so she nods her head. Allowing him to wipe her tears from her eyes, to kiss away the pain and anger raging in her. “I-” her breath catches in her throat. The tears pouring now. “I will leave you.”

He smiles a smile that never touches his eyes. It’s… sad. Relief floods his chest, the images of Calanthe and Cirilla’s death easing. Calanthe will not allow his life to take precedence for theirs. He wishes to live longer, to see the day Cirilla has her own children. To take her children on the roof, as he had done with her. To grow old with Calanthe and die in their sleep. Surrounded by each other, old and grey. Something that will never happen.

The darkness is all-consuming as it descends around them. Eist’s black hair is impossible to see in the light of the stars while Cirilla stands out like jester at a knight’s round table. She attempts to keep her cloak drawn tight to her face. It’s dangerous. At any moment, Eist’s stressed induced, trauma riddled fever can turn to one of sickness, infection. Cirilla’s hair is a beacon in the night’s natural brightness, a dead give away to her birthright. Calanthe is silent.

Cirilla restlessly mumbles in her sleep. Eist shushes her, rubbing a hand up her back, and allowing her head to roll closer to him. Cirilla pulls her knees to her chest, pressing her body against his to get the heat radiating off him. 

Calanthe watches it all. Her heart aching with the love her husband bestows on their grandchild. The child that shares not a drop of his DNA, that is not his by anything more than marriage. The child that he loves as he had loved Pavetta. “I love you,” she whispers, their years spent together not enough. Calanthe loves this man who pours his love into _her_ children. Who finds love in the ocean, the stars, and old buildings. 

He looks up at her, his head resting in her lap. A thousand things run through his head but he only says one,” I love you, too.”

\---------------------

Her scream is deaf to her own ears. The flames building around her until she can feel them painfully lick against her skin. The world is dying, disappearing. She fought to get out of the castle, Eist, and Calanthe right behind her. Drugged, sloppy they are too slow. She turns and they’re trapped in the castle. She can hear their screams. She watches their bodies become engulfed in the flames.

She sits up in a startle. Taking in her surroundings to make sure not even the twigs pose a threat. She finds nothing but her sleeping party around her. The fire is roaring, spurred to full life by Mousesacks magic. She draws herself away from it, it’s proximity causing an odd fear in her. It’s just a stupid dream, she tells herself drawing her knees to her chest. A dream, nothing more. 

Except for the part about Eist.

She stands, her cloak falling in the twigs. Her heart beats erratically, fear childishly fierce. It takes one glance at her grandparents and she scoops her cloak up. Eist is just as he was when the knight and Mousesack took him off the wagon. Her grandmother is resting against his chest, having tucked her blanket around him too. 

She’s not a child anymore. Until she was five, whenever she could, she would leave her own room to join them. Tucked safely between the two of them, nothing could hurt her. What she would give for that security once again.

She curls into Eist’s other side. Drawing her knees to her chest and placing her back against his side. The feeling of his chest rising and falling as he breathes, soothes her back to sleep. A reassurance that as the night slowly dies, he’s there. Alive.

\---------------------

Eist leans heavily against the back of the tree, too weak to sit up on his own. His shoulders slump inwards, his breath shaky. He breathes through a lightheaded moment, eye closed and head pushed to his chest. Giving himself only a moment, he opens his right eye and blinks through the grime and stiffness. He can make out the shape of something in front of him. He squints his right eye, the left covered with a bandage. Leaning in, neither silhouettes become clearer but he can make out that they must be Calanthe and Cirilla. A spike of pain makes him grunt, covering the eye with his hand and casting himself back into the darkness. He falls back into the tree, stopping himself from holding his body tight in pain.

“Could you see?” The soft, hopeful inflection of Cirilla’s voice makes it that much harder to shake his head. He can hear her move away from him, dragging her feet as she sulks. She’s too young to have to deal with any of this. She’s always deserved more than he could give her. He’s allowed for her mother to fall prey to the sea’s hungry waves and he’s let down Cirilla and Calanthe. He’s failed.

Calanthe brushes a hand against his cheek, pulling his fingers away from their tight grip in his hair. “It’ll be okay, my love.” Her small fingers work at the tension in his temples, drawing his head to rest on her shoulder. “You just need to rest.” He’s trembling in her arms, weak from sitting up. His fever no longer ravishes his body but it still burns hot. “We’ll figure this out,” she decides but she has no idea where to start.

He eases into her touch, a soft moan on his lips as she massages the base of his neck. Perhaps, not knowing where to start isn’t the most important thing. Right now, she has her family. Her kingdom is gone but she would rather have Eist and Cirilla than a whole army or some damned kingdom. “We’ll be okay, my love.” This time, there’s not a shred of doubt in her voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you guys want a flashback with Eist and Calanthe and if so, what would you like to see? Alternatively, any ideas for more chapters or a different fic?


End file.
